


Orpheus

by PBWritesStuff



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Q (James Bond), Because it's tricky, Dark Q (James Bond), I apologise, M is in the character tags because even when she's dead she's still affecting people's lives, M/M, One-Sided James Bond/Q, Past Child Abuse, Q is living my Bond-villain fantasies out there, This is gonna update when it updates, This is honestly a whole lot of projection, Tricky to write and frightening to think too long about, and for that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27531967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBWritesStuff/pseuds/PBWritesStuff
Summary: A year after Skyfall, Q is at odds with the new M, and tired of the suspicion and spy games, he drops off the face of the Earth, leaving his one-time lover Bond to pick up the pieces. But Q didn't disappear without help, and the search for the Quartermaster will bring him face to face with a man he'd thought dead.It seems Bond's biggest mistake was assuming he played the part of Orpheus in this game.
Relationships: James Bond/Q, Q/Raoul Silva | Tiago Rodriguez
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

_"There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder man has_ **intellect** _, and the younger man has all the joy,_ **hope** _, and glamour of life before him."_  
  
\- Oscar Wilde, at his criminal trial.  
  


* * *

  
He woke up to the soft glow of the morning light, shining down on Silva's face like a radiant blessing. It painted the room in gentle shades of gold, and brought out the soft edges in the man's face - a face that was so often hard and jaded. When Silva was asleep, his features softened, and Q was always enamored by it.  
  
He slept without his prosthetic in, just like people with dentures, and he thought it made him look awful at night. He wasn't _wrong_ , and most people would be horrified at the sunken-in appearance of his face. But Q thought that he was beautiful, and more radiant because he was damaged. He was fascinated by the way that poison had ravaged the man (Q hestitated to say _cyanide_ , because it didn't make sense, and he didn't have an answer that _did)_ , and the fact that he had _lived_.  
  
There was a sort of beauty in the horror, a Byronic kind of majesty there.  
  
A single eye flicked open then, lazily, and Raoul smirked a little when he saw the younger man watching him so intently.  
  
"What is it?" He asked, with a sleep-softened voice, as his lips turned upwards and his smirk widened.  
  
"You'll think it's silly." Q retorted, and closed his eyes to keep from seeing the other man's reaction. "It _is_ silly."  
  
He heard the clack of teeth at the bedside table, and knew Raoul was putting in his prosthetic, a sure sign that he was now fully awake. He sighed, because now that he'd said it, Silva would want to _talk_ about it, and he had no desire to do so, but it was one of the man's favorite hobbies to get under people's skin and discover what made them tick, and Q was not an exception to that.  
  
He felt warm lips on his forehead, his throat, nuzzling aside his curls, pressed against the shell of his ear.  
  
"Tell me." Silva murmured in a low rumble, like a coming storm. Q got the sense that he was amused by the idea of a secret between them. There were no secrets now - their lives were one in a way that he liked to believe was more than just co-dependence.  
  
"I know it's ridiculous." Q answered softly, opening his eyes again, and touching the knife scar across Silva's back. The marks from his torture in Hong Kong. The scars on his face from the poisoning. He sighed before he continued.  
  
"You are older, more fit. More experienced. More intelligent. And yet..." Q laughed, sinking further into the blankets, smiling wryly. "And yet. _I_ want to protect _you_. I have such an urge to just keep you safe, so that no one will ever harm you again."  
  
Silva did not seem surprised by this. He tilted his head, and his smile grew warmer. His soft hair fell over his forehead, and turned golden-white in the light of the morning, sunbeams raining down through the tall french windows.   
  
"You are my equal." The former agent murmured, and Q swallowed, feeling the other man's eyes on his throat as he did. "That is why I chose you."  
  
He reached out, running a hand through Q's sleep-messy curls, and his eyes sharpened - it was the look of a predator.  
  
"I had thought I broke you of that habit." He murmured. "Of thinking yourself anything _less_ than a god anong men."  
  
"I was not your first choice." Q replied, feeling just a bit of that old cynicism creep back into his heart.  
  
"That's a lie, and you know it. Fate assured that 007 arrived first, but I wanted you _both_. _Very_ badly." Raoul said, and his voice went down in pitch, lowering to a husky murmur near the end. "James Bond made his own choice, and that choice did not include me."  
  
He lifted up on his elbow then, and pressed his forehead to Q's, resting their heads together, feeling the heat arc between them like the interplay of electricity and metal. His next words were whispered, like a prayer in a church; like the derelict white-washed facade of the church on their island, a chapel where no one had prayed in many years.  
  
"But you are my equal, just as much as he was." Silva grinned, pressed his smiling lips against Q's mouth, murmured against his cheek. "It is not my fault that M required _two_ of you to recreate _me_."  
  
"You're rather full of yourself, aren't you?" Q muttered in a tone that showed he didn't really mean it, and he couldn't help the slow smile he felt growing on his lips when the other man smirked and his eyes sparkled.  
  
"Perhaps. But _you_ have been known to be full of me too, on occasion."  
  
Q blushed up to his ears, and shoved Silva back onto the bed, leaning over him with hands planted on either side of his head.  
  
"Two can play at that game." Q said, with a wicked grin.  
  
Silva laughed.  
  
And somewhere, at a makeshift port on a derelict island, a ship was docking, and Orpheus waited at the gates.


	2. Chapter 2

**One Year Earlier**

  
"Two can play at that game," Q muttered to himself as he typed away on the laptop. He was working on the case he'd been assigned, of course, but he had a habit of doing side projects under M's nose. He was certain that the previous M probably knew about his... Extracurricular activities, but she didn't seem to care, as long as he got the job done. She cared more about his expertise than his professionalism.  
  
The new director of MI6 wanted to keep him on a tighter leash.  
  
It was justified, of course, because Q had been stupid enough not to ask where they'd gotten that laptop. Stupid enough to just plug it right in to the government network - he'd been foolish to trust their security without checking it first. He'd been foolish not to ask questions.   
  
If he'd known it was _Raoul Silva's_ laptop, he wouldn't have even _touched_ the damn thing without VPNs and IP scramblers and Virtual Machines and a goddamn Faraday Cage on top of all that.  
  
But knowing these things, and knowing   
cyber security was _his job_. And unlike working for a random security firm, screwing up _here_ wouldn't get him fired - it would get him court martialed.  
  
Still, knowing all that he knew didn't mean he had to _like_ it. But he was on very thin ice with M, and that meant that all his secret little side projects had to be kept _quiet_.   
  
"Note to self: ask M for a Faraday Cage."  
  
One of the things he hated about working for someone was the fact that he always had to ask permission for new equipment, like some child working out of his mother's basement. If he'd still been on his own, he could have gotten the things he needed without any kind of effort or security clearance. It brought back memories of living with his uncle as a child. Of being afraid to ask permission, ashamed to ask for his basic needs.  
  
Q sighed, turned to the intercom beside his computer set-up, and pressed the button.  
  
"Janice, get me an Earl Grey please." He spoke clearly, if a bit drowsily, into the microphone.  
  
"Yes sir. I'll have it delivered right away." The assistant replied politely, and Q sunk back into his chair.  
  
One _good_ thing about working for MI6 was having minions to order around. He was obligated to call them assistants and interns and technicians on the legal paperwork, but a minion by any other name was still a minion.  
  
While he waited for his tea, he checked several of the background projects he had running. Despite the new M's insistence on his being a law-abiding citizen, Q still regularly did mercenary hacking work. It was usually corporate espionage, stealing files and consumer information from one mega-corporation, and being paid for it by another. The money was piling up in an offshore bank account for the day when he finally told Mallory to shove it and dropped off the face of the Earth.  
  
Ah... Everyone had their fantasy.  
  
An alert pinged on his desk top, and Q turned with a smirk. His unassuming little backdoor viruses had gotten snapped right up and opened by one of the targets; with the click of a button, the information he wanted was being automatically written into a neat little file.  
  
"Knock, knock." A familiar voice called from the doorway, and Q turned with a hint of surprise to see James Bond in the doorway. He was holding a tall paper cup that probably contained his tea. Q was feeling maudlin, terribly maudlin this morning, and it showed in his voice as he raised an eyebrow and took in James's disheveled appearance.  
  
"Demoted to delivery boy, 007? I had heard M was hard on you, but this is a bit _extreme_ , don't you think?"  
  
Bond frowned, and set the cup on the desk in front of him.  
  
"Not exactly." The agent put his hands in his pockets and looked pointedly   
around Q's workspace. "I stopped your delivery girl on the way up, because I wanted an excuse to chat."  
  
"To chat?" Q scoffed. "I wasn't aware we had anything to talk about."  
  
Bond had been puttering around the office for a year after the Skyfall fiasco, and while the new M had sent him on a few 'busy-work' missions, it was an open secret at MI6 that Bond was on thin ice with their director.  
  
"Well, I wanted to return your watch." Bond answered hesitantly, and extended a beautiful (if scuffed) wrist-watch. He'd been loaned it from Q branch for his last mission, and it had the capacity to act as a gps radio transmitter for emergencies.  
  
"Frankly..." Q began, looking down at the accessory. "...I wasn't expecting to get it back."  
  
"I'm ashamed you think so little of me." James replied with a deadpan, and Q shrugged.  
  
"It's not just my _opinion_. The statistics don't lie." Q heard another ping from his computer, but ignored it for the moment to focus on Bond.  
  
"Was there a reason for your visit, 007? Because if you don't mind, some of us have _actual_ _work_ to do."  
  
Bond glanced at the computer, but Q recognized the blank expression on his face, and knew that he wouldn't be able to tell what the Quartermaster had been working on. His ears reddened just the slightest amount, and Q could tell he was feeling his age - unfamiliar with Q's world, and out of touch with his _own_ world of violence and death. He was feeling like a relic of another time, and even though he hadn't been there, and couldn't read minds, Q could still see _'take the bloody shot'_ carved into his features like a scar.  
  
He took pity.  
  
"Listen. I really _am_ busy," Q began, and held up a hand to stop the other man's protests. "But if you want, we can go grab a drink after work, alright?"  
  
The light seemed to come back into 007's face then, and he grinned.  
  
"It's a date then." He said, and Q felt something like a twist in the pit of his stomach.  
  
He didn't actually mean it like that, but he didn't correct Bond as he left. He pondered whether he'd said it to get 007 out of his office, or whether he really didn't mind going on a date with the man. Q wasn't really the romantic type, and if James wanted to wine and dine him like he did when he seduced a woman, Q thought he might actually throw up. _If_ , on the other hand, he provided stimulating conversation, the young man might reconsider.   
  
He supposed it all depended on how the evening turned out. Bond was an attractive man (and Q always seemed to go for the older ones anyway), and he seemed like the sort of man who could give him what he wanted, without guilt or hesitation. Thinking about the men he'd killed with his bare hands made Q suppress a little shiver and force his mind back to the task at hand.  
  
The little alert that had gone off when he was talking with Bond had been telling him his program was done, and the information was his. Now he pulled up a nondescript email account from a website that worked like the digital version of a burner phone.  
  
He sipped from his tea, already feeling the tension from the conversation start to dissolve into things he could understand, logic and technology.  
  
_Just like always,_ Q typed. _Here's the information. You get the decryption key when I get the money._  
  
It was encrypted to ensure that the buyer didn't just run when they got the information. They could always hire someone to decrypt it of course, but it would cost more than he charged for the whole job - making it cheaper to just pay Q for the key.   
  
He also worked freelance sometimes, hacking for fun, and selling the information on the dark web to the highest bidder. Honestly it was mostly ad-relevance information - it was shocking how much corporations would pay, just to see whether suburban mothers prefered white wine or red.  
  
With a tap, the email was sent, and Q sank back into his chair with tea in both hands. It warmed him, superficially, but he still felt a deep coldness in his chest this morning. He'd woken up in a cold sweat, alone in his flat, after a nightmare. He'd gone to the bathroom to throw up, and rocked on the floor for a while, until he had to shower and go to work.  
  
It had made the entire day seem... Off. Like something out of a fever dream. It was probably why he agreed to go on a date with James Bond before really thinking it through. During times like these, the dissociative times, he liked to be touched. It always made him feel... If not _better_ , then perhaps more grounded and real.  
  
A ping from the computer pulled his attention back, and Q smiled at the reply.  
  
_Beautiful work, as always. I'll see that this information is_ well _compensated_.  
  
It was rare to be complimented for his skills by a client, but this one was different. They used a different email address every time they wrote, but Q recognized his admirer from the flavor of the writing. They could change their pseudonym, but they couldn't (or wouldn't) change their style. Not that their handle changed often either. They had been _H14_ for as long as Q had been on the scene, and even when the messages weren't signed, he could _tell_.  
  
_You should come work for me_. The letter continued. _Whatever they pay you at that I.T. job is nothing compared to what I can offer._  
  
It was so very tempting, especially because Q didn't actually _want_ to be Quartermaster. He didn't have a choice though, because he'd been young and stupid, and so eager for recognition from his peers.  
  
When he was sixteen, Q had hacked into MI6 on a dare at boarding school, and M herself had stepped in to give him an ultimatum: twenty years in prison at a minimum... Or sign a contract with MI6 for as soon as he graduated college, and have his degree in computer technology completely paid for. With a deal like that, he truly shouldn't complain, but...  
  
_Let's just say it would be_ complicated _to quit my day job._  
  
Q typed out the reply, sent it, and destroyed the account, carefully wiping all trace of it from his computer, as if it had never existed.  
  
He dreamed of a private island, somewhere with a good internet connection, where he could do what he pleased without censure. Working for M never bothered him when M was an old woman. Mallory was not really that different in personality or duty, but he chafed in completely other ways. He reminded Q of former school masters and relatives, the strict and overbearing uncle who'd taken him in after the death of his parents.   
  
On top of that, he saw Q as untrustworthy, and while he wasn't entirely _wrong_ , that didn't make it any easier to deal with. The Quartermaster had spent years building up his reputation around M, making her believe he was just a shy prodigy, trying to make up for one stupid mistake as a teenager.  
  
To spend the time to build up that persona again for a new, more _scrupulous_ M just seemed... Tiring. He didn't have the patience or the mental energy for it.  
  
Sighing, Q pressed the intercom again.  
  
"Janice, please redirect all my calls today. I'm feeling a bit under the weather, and I think I'll be working from home."  
  
He wasn't lying when he'd told Bond he could do more damage in his pyjamas.


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner with Bond that night was... Interesting, to say the least. They went to a pub, first off, which was a nice choice. Firstly, because anything fancier would have made him nervous, and secondly, because Q was in the mood to get positively sloshed.  
  
"Let's get to know each other." James had said after they both slogged through the small talk of polite conversation, and Q scoffed.  
  
"I already know everything there is to know about you. I read your file."  
  
"... I was under the impression my file was sealed, like every other double-o." Bond replied with a little smirk, as if Q was joking. He smirked back.  
  
"And? State secrets never stopped me before."  
  
Q saw the exact moment when James realized he wasn't joking, and regretted it. He recalled, suddenly, who the last person to hack Bond's file was, and he felt like he'd overstepped a line. (He had, of course, but it never seemed to matter until he got caught).  
  
"I'm sorry." Q muttered. "I'm not good with this sort of thing, and I didn't mean to upset you."  
  
He was never the kind of person who enjoyed small talk or the other myriad social games that _civilized_ people played with each other. He played them, usually, if it was to his advantage, but he didn't enjoy it. As a child, his uncle was always smacking him in the back of the head or pinching his shoulder too hard, reminding him to say 'good day,' and 'how do you do?' and 'fine weather we're having.'  
  
Bond seemed mollified by that, as if some part of him understood, and he nodded briskly.  
  
"It's generally more fun for those of us who aren't complete geniuses. Not everyone can hack into MI6, and those people have to be content with asking questions."   
  
"Ask away then," Q replied, hand on his drink. "But I can't guarantee a straight answer."  
  
"Fair enough." Bond said. "I request then, that all contestants phrase their answers in the form of a pretzel."  
  
That thought made them both sort of hungry, so they ordered food first, and asked questions afterward.  
  
"What are your parents like?" Bond asked, around a mouthful of the greasiest fish and chips Q had ever seen, and he grimaced.  
  
"I'm an orphan." _Like you,_ he added mentally, but didn't say aloud because Bond's file was apparently a taboo subject.  
  
It was James' turn to grimace now, and he seemed regretful.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"It was years ago. I hardly remember." Q answered, looking away. This subject made him feel awkward, and as much as he'd come to terms with his parents' deaths, it was sort of a depressing subject for a first date. He actually remembered quite vividly (it was hard to forget watching your mother's brain splatter the sofa as a ten-year old) but talking about murder-suicide was considered a bad topic for the dinner table.  
  
"Where did you go to university?" James asked instead, and this was easier territory.  
  
"University of Cambridge." Q replied easily. "I got something of a scholarship from MI6, and they wanted a school with a good computer sciences division."  
  
"I've heard it's the best." Bond said neutrally, and then grinned. "And where did _I_ go?"  
  
"Oxford. You majored in British History, and were part of a punting team for four years in a row." Q glanced aside for a moment, sort of afraid to see Bond's reaction, but he had _asked_ , so...  
  
Bond merely smirked when Q got up the nerve to look again, and they both broke into an awkward laughter. They were absurd, a weapon who was never meant to make small talk, and a man who scorned mankind. What a pair they made.  
  
"Oh, fuck this." Bond muttered, still laughing. "Let's talk about something more interesting."  
  
"How did your parents die?" Q asked, feeling the heavy weight of dissociation come back. It was like his actions didn't have consequences, and he said what came to mind instead of what was proper. James didn't mind, and he cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"You know already. You've read my file."  
  
"Indulge me." Q murmured, very quietly. "I want to hear it from your own mouth."  
  
"You do understand that I'll ask the same of you." Bond replied. "As soon as I'm done. We can swap orphan sob stories."  
  
"Yes." Q answered. "I'm due for an emotional bloodletting, and as long as _you're_ fine with it, I am too."  
  
Silence then, for half a minute, and they finished their beers before moving on to stronger stuff. James ordered a martini (shaken, not stirred), and Q grimaced. Shaking a martini ruined the drink, and he could think of no reason Bond did it, other than the reason he'd asked about the man's parents. Self deprecating masochism. Q ordered a vodka cranberry with lots of ice, which always reminded him of something he couldn't remember. It was nostalgia for a thing that had never happened, and Bond looked at him oddly.  
  
"Isn't that a little strong?" He said with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"What makes you think I can't hold my liquor?" Q answered. He wasn't a child, despite his youthful appearance, and he actually had a rather high alcohol tolerance. He'd built it up throughout his teenage years, with the friends who snuck bottles into dormitories.  
  
Bond conceded his point, and took a long breath before he answered the initial question.  
  
"My parents died in a car crash. It was a messy affair, and I spent most of my life in boarding school, though I'm not sure if my parents' death caused that or not."  
  
"I was the same." Q replied, thoughtfully. "After my parents died, I was left with a distant uncle who didn't care to actually interact with me for most of the year."  
  
"How did they die?" Bond asked, and Q sighed.  
  
"My father shot my mother in the head with a pistol, and then committed suicide, when I was ten."  
  
007 let out a low whistle, and he did not look at Q with pity, which was appreciated.  
  
"I found out from my uncle, my father's brother, that I was born out of wedlock, and my mother was really my father's mistress. His wife wanted nothing to do with me, of course. I was the evidence of her husband's infidelity. It certainly explained why my father didn't live with us during my childhood."  
  
"Oh." Bond said, swallowing. "That's depressing."  
  
"I suppose that's why you've never retired." Q said, in a way that was more of a statement than a question. "Nothing's waiting for you on the outside."  
  
Bond scoffed and downed the rest of his drink in a swallow. "I've been on the outside. It's overrated."  
  
"You've been on a beach up the arse-end of nowhere, bumming drinks off locals and playing with scorpions." Q muttered. He'd heard the whole story from Eve. "That's hardly retirement."  
  
A muscle in Bond's jaw ticked, and despite the warning signs of a coming storm, he couldn't bring himself to care. Q wished he was home, at his shitty flat, curled up in bed.  
  
"And what do you think is out there for you?" James asked, with just the smallest hint of venom in his voice.  
  
"Everything." Q murmured. "Money, satisfaction, freedom."  
  
"A beautiful woman to hang off your arm too?" Bond added, almost sarcastically.  
  
"I'm quite sure beautiful women are _your_ domain." Q replied as he sipped his vodka.  
  
"If not a beautiful woman, who do you expect to find out there?" Bond asked wryly, and Q made a show of looking him up and down slowly.  
  
"I'm hoping for someone a little more... Substantial." He answered slowly, running a finger around the rim of his glass. "Intellectual. _Stimulating_."  
  
"I can be plenty _stimulating_." James laughed.  
  
"But could anyone take the place of queen and country in your heart, Bond?" Q asked, only half joking.  
  
"No. Not literally of course, but -"  
  
"But if duty calls, you shall answer." Q finished, and drained the last of his vodka with a sigh. "If you ever change your mind, you should run away with me."  
  
"Bold of you to assume no one will prevent us eloping."  
  
"I have my ways." Q answered, and wiggled his fingers like a magician. That part wasn't a lie, at least. He'd been thinking of an escape plan for years now, and he'd had a lot of time to work out contingencies. On that note, he didn't think Bond was the ideal partner to take on the run with him, and if he'd had any idea whatsoever that Bond was likely to agree, he wouldn't have offered.  
  
He'd need someone reliable, steady, not prone to recklessness, and good at flying below the radar, something James wasn't even passingly _competent_ in.  
  
For a single night though... Maybe he could help Q forget.  
  
Eventually they stumbled up to Q's flat, with his creaking door and tiny windows, and Bond pressed him into the wall. Like warm candlewax, Q melted into him, tilting his head to expose the planes of his throat like an invitation. Bond took it, biting and sucking a mark into his neck like a beautiful animal, and Q was so grateful that 007 didn't treat him like he was delicate blown glass.  
  
"Do you want me?" The agent murmured against the shell of his ear, dark and low and promising. "Do you want me to _fuck_ you, Q?"  
  
"Yes." The Quartermaster breathed, something like _need_ beginning to creep into his voice.  
  
They made it to the bed, eventually.


	4. Chapter 4

He'd gone to sleep that night in Bond's room, and woken up in a different place entirely. He'd had bizarre dreams, and the ghosts of them still bounced around in the morning after.  
  
At first, he'd thought it might have been a dream, and he'd imagined 007 pinning him to the bed. Then he brought his hand up to touch his neck, right where it melded into his shoulder, and smiled.  
  
It had not been a dream, as the slowly awakening ache in his thighs was beginning to show. But he was in a place that was neither his flat, nor Bond's, and _that_ was concerning. He wasn't in MI6 (as far as he could tell), and the room was bare concrete, save for a spartan Japanese futon on the floor, a lightbulb in the ceiling, and a tv-screen on the far wall.  
  
Q's eyes were immediately drawn to the television, but his glasses were gone, and he couldn't focus in on the features. So he stood up, and walked over to the screen, reaching out to it, only to be stopped by a smooth barrier.  
  
Q smiled. _Touché_.  
  
That explained why he was missing his glasses, and why the screen was in some sort of plexiglass box. It would have been _difficult_ without his glasses, and software was more of his area of expertise, but given enough time and patience, he could have made something dangerous. Whoever had kidnapped Q must _know_ him, know _of_ him, or have experience with captives who were possessed of a certain technical know-how.  
  
Curiouser and curiouser.  
  
Q did an assessment of his current state. No watch, no phone, no technology of any kind. He was wearing the rumpled undershirt and shorts he'd worn to bed, with a tiny pen in his shirt pocket. It was hardly big enough to use as a weapon, and he didn't even have enough material on him to make a noose for whomever was going to step through the door.  
  
Next, he assessed his physical status. He was a little sore, but it was a pleasant soreness, and had nothing to do with his kidnapping. He couldn't even bring himself to be embarrassed about it. He felt groggy, and after just a moment of pacing, had to collapse back onto the futon with a groan. He'd probably been drugged, and that was why he was so slow and sluggish. Q took deep breaths, and counted them.   
  
Then he stood up again, and looked at the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. It was low enough to reach, and it was _hot_ , so Q stripped off his shirt, and wrapped it around his hand like an oven mitt - if he was quick enough, he wouldn't get burned. Reaching above him, Q unscrewed the bulb, and yanked down cords from the ceiling, where the fixture was meant to be. They had tried to Q-proof the room, but seemed to have missed a spot.  
  
Luckily, a window in the wall behind him (too small to climb out of, too high up to see out of) gave enough light to work by.  
  
He'd just started stripping the wires with his teeth, when the door swung open, and a squad of four very large men wearing ski masks entered the room. Q swallowed.  
  
"Afternoon, gentlemen." Q said, sounding calmer than he felt, and the shadow of his uncle whispered in the back of his mind about 'how do you do,' and 'pleased to meet you'.  
  
The light bulb and wires were pulled from his hands, and one of the men held his arms behind his back as he tried to protest. The television flickered on, and Q looked to it immediately, only to see Bond on-screen, in a cell just like his, with nothing but a mat in the corner. He crouched in front of the screen. They had just time enough to make eye-contact, and both seemed surprised.  
 _  
It's two-ways,_ Q thought, _like a video call._ And he felt something very uncomfortable settle down into his stomach.  
  
"Now, you must be wondering why I've brought you here." A mechanically distorted voice crackled out from the television speakers, and Q looked at Bond, as if to say; _Is this what you deal with on a regular basis? Am I about to be treated to a_ villain _monologue_? 007 just rolled his eyes.  
  
"I'm afraid we've heard of your immunity to torture," the voice continued, and Q knew they were talking about LeChiffre. He'd read about that too, from the files, and James' face remained perfectly blank.  
  
"But I would like answers, and I thought they might be easier to get, if we threatened someone you cared for."  
  
Q swallowed then, and felt an odd sort of relief. He was here, apparently, in his capacity as Bond's one-night-stand and _not_ as the Quartermaster. Good. That was something he could work with. Slowly, Q made eye contact with Bond again, and blinked very carefully.  
  
One long blink. Two short. Three long. One long close of his eyelids, followed by a quick blink.  
  
D. O. N -  
  
"Ah, ah, enough of that." The voice exclaimed, somewhat bemused, as one of the thugs smacked Q across the face. "I'll have no code between you."  
  
Bond nodded though, Q thought he probably understood. He'd meant to say Don't reveal, or Don't answer, or something, but he wasn't sure.  
  
It _said_ something about his childhood that being backhanded felt like home, and he felt a sudden rush of confidence to know that he could handle this. It would be uncomfortable, and it would probably bring back unpleasant memories, but Q would _not_ crack under pressure. The grip on the hands behind his back tightened, and he was dragged into a better view of the camera in the screen.  
  
"So," the voice continued, and Q thought it might be male, beneath the audio distortion, but he couldn't be sure.  
  
"So, we'll start _breaking_ things, and we'll see if we can get you to talk, 007."  
  
At that, the man who'd been holding Q threw him onto the floor with a thud, and before he could react, someone held him in place with hands on his arms and legs. Someone took hold of his right arm, stretching it out to the side, and stomped down hard enough that Q felt something break in his forearm. He screamed, but only for a second, a scream that devolved into a low groan as he let the terrible pain go through him. This was fine. Not exactly _fine_ , but Q had broken an arm a few times as a child, and some of those were even _accidents_. This was _fine_. He recalled a night spent curled up on a cold cot and cradling his arm because he wouldn't be taken to the hospital until morning, and until then, he had to live with the pain.  
  
This was fine.  
  
Sparing a glance at the screen, Q saw Bond look vaguely sick, and the Quartermaster glared at him. For someone who had a good amount of experience with torture, Bond certainly seemed uncomfortable watching it. Did he expect Q to be a pushover? Had he expected him to start spilling state secrets as soon as they put on some pressure?  
  
Q grimaced and let out a little groan as his arm was jostled again, a quiet "Ah," that sounded barely louder than his heart.  
  
"What pretty hands you have," The voice murmured in its inscrutable baritone overhead with a note of menace. Q flinched, but quickly schooled his expression into a neutral mask.  
  
 _Fingers will heal, fingers will heal_ , he chanted silently and with his eyes squeezed shut as one of the thugs bent his little finger back and back and back, and Q wondered at the elasticity of it - it took _forever_ for the pain to reach a peak of agony, and then it snapped, sending a terrible vibration of bone-deep pain up Q's throbbing arm. He screamed again, letting himself make noise as a kind of outlet for the suffering. _This was worse,_ he thought, _than having one's arm broken. The anticipation made it worse._  
  
Bond made some sort of noise in the background, a gutteral sort of sound, and Q only vaguely heard it, groaning quietly to himself, with eyes closed.  
  
It began again, with his ring finger now, and Q trembled against his will when the unseen mercenary started bending it slowly backwards. He let out a little whimper, and wished he had something to bite down on, something to muffle himself with.  
  
 _Snap_ , again, and Q screamed louder - both of his broken fingers and his broken arm were radiating pain, like a blossom of agony that originated somewhere in his right arm and shot right through his stomach. He finished his scream, and let out a little chorus of "Oh, oh, oh..." And he whimpered into the concrete floor as quietly as he could.  
  
And then it started all over again, and Q let out a breathy sob when he felt his middle finger drawn backward, and he tried not to think about the pain, or how hard it would be to type until he healed. He couldn't flip people off if his middle finger was broken, and the thought of that was almost absurd enough to make him laugh, even though it didn't mask the anticipatory pain that broke into a crescendo with the sound of another painful snap. Q sobbed quietly against the floor and he kept his eyes pointedly away from the screen. He wasn't sure what Bond's expression would be, and it scared him.  
  
Two more fingers. Just two more to go on this hand, and then he would be able to think about something else.  
  
It was just as miserable as the other three, and Q was a sobbing mess on the floor when they let him go, but Bond hadn't said a word, and neither had he. Rolling over, and supporting himself on his good hand, Q vomited in a puddle, and it made him feel marginally better.  
  
"Well, 007, you seem rather tight-lipped today." The voice said when it crackled out of the speakers again. "Let's call it an evening, and go again tomorrow. We still have a whole other hand to go before we have to start _removing_ bits."  
  
Q felt the cold hand of fear run down his spine and he vomited again, though nothing came out but bile.   
  
The men left. They took his lightbulb. They left the screen turned on.  
  
"Q," Bond began, in a tremulous voice, and the younger man looked up and glared at him.  
  
"We're being watched, James. Don't say _anything_."  
  
He tried to convey with his eyes how very important this was. If their captors found out he was the Quartermaster, they would not stop at broken fingers. James frowned so deeply it lined his forehead, but he nodded, almost imperceptibly.  
  
Something occured to him then, and he stumbled back to the rumpled futon with a little sob, rocking back and forth, and cradling his arm.  
  
"Q - _Quentin_." Bond murmured from the screen. The young man saluted his creativity - James had called him Q, earlier, and it could feasibly be a nickname for Quentin. This way, hopefully, his cover would remain intact.  
  
"Unlike you, Mr. Bond, I don't carry a cyanide capsule in my back molar." Q whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, and Bond paled.  
  
"That's a last resort." He retorted. "We've only been here a few hours."  
  
"You really think MI6 is coming for you?" Q replied sardonically. "You're barely hanging on to your job. If anything, your boss will think you went into _retirement_."  
  
"And you?" Bond asked, even though they were still pretending he was a civilian, and why would MI6 care about a civilian anyway?  
  
"Collateral damage." Q replied, and tried to impart another 'C' word with his gaze. _Compromised_. If Mallory thought for a second that Q was captured, he'd send a squad alright, but it wouldn't be a rescue squad. They'd send someone to put a _bullet_ in his head before he could say anything _dangerous_.  
  
Bond paled, and Q nodded, solemnly. Then he laughed, like the bark of a jackal.  
  
"They didn't even leave me the light bulb. I could have broken it and slit my wrists."  
  
"Well then." Bond swallowed hard. "We'll just have to escape before M realizes I'm gone."  
  
Including the time they were drugged, and based on the sun coming through the tiny window, Q thought they had around fifteen hours, tops. Fifteen hours or less to escape from a heavily guarded facility, and make their way back to MI6 headquarters.  
  
"That seems reasonable." Q muttered sarcastically.  
  
There was silence for a few heartbeats, and then the Quartermaster spoke again.  
  
"You looked like you were going to be sick when they broke my arm. Did you think I was going to start talking the moment they started?"  
  
"No." Bond said simply. "I just didn't like seeing you hurt."  
  
That took Q by surprise, and he wasn't sure how to feel about it. He felt disgusted, like Bond thought of him as some pretty thing to be protected. He felt vaguely flattered, in being that pretty thing. He felt depressed, because this was just the tip of the iceberg for Q's mental problems, and Bond _didn't know what he was getting into, dammit_.  
  
"But you took it surprisingly well." Bond continued, and Q felt the other shoe had dropped. He flushed, and turned away, cradling his broken arm and snapped fingers with the air of a dog licking its wounds. He didn't want to talk about this. Not now, not ever. Not about his past, or his masochistic tendencies or his pain tolerance.  
  
They never shut off the screen, and as it got dark outside, the glow from it became a night light, and it helped Q a little. He was afraid of waking up in complete darkness, disoriented and unable to fight back.  
  
He woke in the night anyway, from pain, and his groans must have woken Bond, who peered owlishly at the screen.  
  
"Are you alright?" 007 asked, and Q grunted.  
  
"Never better, James. I'm feeling dandy."  
  
"No need to be so cheeky, Q."  
  
"Stop calling me that." The younger man growled under his breath. "You've done quite enough to expose me as it is."  
  
"As if I wasn't in danger too?" Bond snorted.  
  
"You're not the one being _tortured_." Q murmured, and in his mind, he had a dozen other retorts, but they would have involved terms like basic fucking operational security, and he cared too much to blow his cover just to properly educate Bond on how stupid he was being.  
  
The next day brought new fears, and it began with a breakfast of thin gruel in a simple bowl. No utensils of any kind. One of the guards held Q back, and another set the bowl on the concrete floor, as if they expected him to struggle. It was hard to sip from a bowl with only one hand, and the non-dominant one at that, but he managed. Meanwhile, he and Bond maintained a silent, icy stare through the screen.  
  
When the guards came in, and held him at gun-point, he knew something was wrong.  
  
"This level of security wasn't necessary yesterday, and I'm down one arm." Q sniped to the speakers on the screen. "Are you afraid I've gotten more dangerous overnight?"  
  
"Not more dangerous," The distorted voice echoed around the room. "But certainly more valuable to us."  
  
Q's stomach dropped, and he glared at Bond, even though he knew he was probably to blame just as much.  
  
"We've discovered who you really are, Mr. Quartermaster, and we've been contacted by a party who wants you even more than we do."  
  
Bond's eyes widened, and Q's narrowed.  
  
"Since operational security is blown out of the bloody water, I'll speak directly, Bond." Q began, with a scowl. "Don't tell them a fucking thing, and when you get out of here, as I know you will -"  
  
The Quartermaster was interrupted by the butt of a gun against the back of his head, and instead of falling, he was yanked back to his feet by his good arm, and the rest came out in a rush.  
  
"Don't send a recovery team for me, send an assassin."  
  
Q was shuffled around by the guards, and he hissed as he was cuffed, breathing deeply to compartmentalize the pain, just like they'd taught him in basic training.  
  
" _Be careful..._ " Q could hear, just barely, through the tinny headpiece of the nearest guard. " _... Buyer wants him intact._ "  
  
He was marched through the complex of underground rooms - concrete walls and floors and ceilings in all of them, and yellow artificial light. He was shoved into a van then, held in place by a guard on either side of him in the back seat, guns trained on his head, as if he was going to try something. At least they had good trigger discipline, and Q didn't feel like the first bump in the road would take his head off.  
  
"Do I get to know who was the highest bidder for the Quartermaster of MI6?" Q asked snippily, and the driver laughed.  
  
"I couldn't tell you if I wanted to. Even _we_ don't know the buyer. It's all been handled remotely."  
  
 _Curious_ , Q thought, with a bit of a thrill. He'd been ready to retire for ages now. Maybe this mysterious new player would give him the means to escape from MI6. He'd gladly turncoat for a bit of freedom and some minions. More likely, the so-called buyer was a small time despot who wanted to threaten Q into hacking for him, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.  
  
They left the parking lot, and went up a ramp into the open air, where dawn seemed just to be breaking over the horizon. From what little Q could see of the scenery, they still seemed to be in England, Liverpool maybe. That was when a needle found its way into the side of his throat, and everything went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

Q dreamed while he was sedated, and the memories blurred together in a kaleidoscope of color and sound.  
  
 _Q was eighteen, and hacking on the side while he worked on his degree, with MI6 and Olivia Mansfield breathing down his neck like a ghost in the night. Even though he wasn't the Quartermaster then, Q was his internet handle. Q for queen, the strongest piece on the chessboard, but with fewer of the feminine connotations. Q like the omnipotent alien from Star Trek.  
  
H had been amused at something he'd typed. Q could tell, because it took them longer to reply, and there was a laugh in the tone of writing. He_ _couldn't remember what they were talking about, but for the first time in his life, Q was happy._  
  
 _Q was ten years old, watching through the slats of a closet door, because his father was banging at the door of the apartment, and his mother shoved him behind the coats and told him to shut up. He watched as the man pushed his way inside, and pulled a gun from his pocket. Vodka and cranberry juice spilled from a shattered glass and stained the carpet._  
  
 _Q was thirteen, and his uncle had just struck him across the face, knocking him against a table as he fell._  
  
 _"Worthless little runt." He'd muttered under his breath, the scent of liquor rolling off of him in waves. "Wish my stupid brother had learned to keep his prick in his trousers."  
  
Q curled up, and made himself smaller, and told himself that if he didn't fight, it would be over quickly._  
  
 _Q was twenty, and hearing a song over the radio in a Chinese restaurant. It was a beautiful piece in Cantonese, not Mandarin, though someone who was eating at a Chinese restaurant probably wouldn't know, or care. Q only knew because it was the prize at the end of an elaborate cat and mouse game with H14. (They never played for anything that was worth money. It was valuable in other ways.)  
  
He listened to it as he ate his meal, and thought of leaving London._  
  
The Quartermaster awoke with a start, and he could immediately tell he was in a plane. He could tell by the air pressure, and the pain it put on his joints. He could also tell the reason why the music had influenced his dreams. [_Xiānhuā Mănyuè Lóu_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSn9r_Xww5k) was playing over the speakers in the cargo hold, and Q felt oddly soothed.  
  
He wasn't really afraid of flying, but he'd carefully cultivated and spread that rumor at Q-Branch for two good reasons. Firstly, if he ever needed to run, no one would look for him by plane. Secondly, he really didn't enjoy flying, because the air pressure caused his arthritis to flare, and it was embarrassing to explain that to someone. Easier to just say he was afraid. He might be laughed at, but that was better than _pity_.  
  
He was laying on the floor of a cargo hold, and there were guards about, but they didn't have their guns trained on him, which was a good sign. Q's head felt light, and the pain in his arm had subsided from a screaming throb to the dull sort of ache that spoke of pain killers.  
  
He'd been drugged, and not just with the sedative they'd given him in the van. The music faded out, just as Q was getting his bearings, and a voice crackled over the speakers.  
  
"I see you're awake, Quartermaster." A smooth voice noted, with no sign of distortion. There was a slight Spanish accent, and Q knew instantly who he was dealing with. "I hope you won't begin to panic, Mr -"  
  
"Q." The man interrupted quickly. "I will respect you enough to use your chosen name, Mr. Silva, and I hope you'll offer me the same courtesy."  
  
A hearty laugh crackled through the speakers, and Q dragged himself up to a sitting position. He was satisfied the formerly dead man hadn't brought up his given name. He hadn't heard it since the day it rolled off his uncle's tongue in a curse as he left for college.  
  
"Q it is, then." Silva chuckled. "I'm sure you understand why I couldn't come to greet you personally."  
  
"MI6 believes you dead."  
  
"And you didn't? Not even a little?" Silva said, with an intonation that was almost a pout.  
  
"I put the clues together ages ago." Q murmured. He proceeded to explain.  
  
"Cantonese music. The kind that was popular in Hong Kong while you were stationed there. H14 is a reference to Hadrian, the fourteenth Emperor of Rome. The _Spanish_ emperor."  
  
"You always were so clever." Silva laughed again, and Q even managed to crack a smile, despite the pain he was in.  
  
"It worked for a little while, at least." Q muttered. "I only started to put it together after you'd 'died' the second time. If you really wanted me to be surprised, you shouldn't have left breadcrumbs."  
  
"If I'm Hadrian, what does that make you, dear boy?"  
  
And Q actually paused to think about that for a moment. What was he, to Silva? He knew what he wanted to be. What was it he'd told Bond? Someone stimulating, who could fly under the radar? H had been the only person who'd ever challenged him in code, and Silva was the only one who'd ever bested him in hacking.  
  
There was only ever one.  
  
"I'm the young man who becomes a _god_ , of course." Q quipped, and Silva laughed even harder.  
  
"Yes. I suppose you are. You'll even have to ' _die_ ' first as well." He replied, and Q knew he didn't mean it literally.  
  
"I've thought about it, faking my death, I mean. I presume you didn't leave a trail for MI6 to follow?"  
  
"You think so little of me, I'm wounded!"  
  
"Then no one knows who made the exchange with those thugs who had me." Q murmured.  
  
"I'm sorry those imbeciles damaged your poor hand."  
  
"It's fine." Q replied, waving it off. "I think it's all clean fractures that haven't shifted. I probably won't even need them set when I get to... _Wherever_ it is we're going."  
  
"Monte Carlo, darling. You'll need to have a disguise, but I can hardly take you to an abandoned island for a first date."  
  
"Is _that_ what this is?" Q snorted. "You thought the abandoned island was good enough for seducing _Bond_."  
  
"And look what happened! He stabbed me in the back!"  
  
Q wasn't quite sure how to feel about this. How to feel about his undeniable attraction to his long-time rival, even   
knowing who he was. What he'd done.   
  
He'd been attracted to H before he knew who was behind the handle. Before he even knew the gender, age or appearance of the other hacker. When it had first hit him that H was Silva... He'd initially felt sick - the only person who'd ever gotten through his defenses, and he'd been so mockingly _casual_ about it - no one had ever hurt him like that before, in the world of computers, the one place he'd always been _safe_.  
  
Then he'd rationalized. He devoured all the files that he could dig up out of MI6's database, more than the notes from Skyfall that helped him piece together the puzzle. Then he'd followed the trail of how Tiago Rodriguez had died in the cell of a Chinese prison. Then he'd discovered what he'd done wrong, and made _sure_ that no one would ever get past his defenses again.  
  
Finally, the stage of acceptance, and he came to view H and Silva as one and the same (which of course, they were).  
  
"Are you serious? ... Raoul?" Q asked, a little tremulously. "Serious about... This. Me."  
  
There was a long silence over the speakers, and Q began to feel a familiar tremor in his stomach. He was going to be sick.  
  
"I am serious as death." Silva finally said, no playful banter in his voice. "You are my equal, intellectually, and if you let me, I want to give you the world."  
  
"To rule, or to burn?"  
  
"Your choice, dear Q. My vengeance is complete, but everyone needs a goal, yes?"  
  
And just like that, all doubts were gone. For the first time in a long time, Q felt safe. At home. (And the irony that he was in a cargo bay surrounded by men with guns wasn't lost on him.)  
  
"The men in the plane have orders to obey you as they would obey me. No exceptions." Silva explained over the radio, and one of the hired thugs nodded curtly. "So if you want to back out, now is the time."  
  
Q smiled, even though he knew the other man wouldn't see it.  
  
"Unlimited resources, to do whatever I want with? Why the bloody hell would I back out?" The now-former Quartermaster laughed.  
  
(It never occurred to him that MI6 might not want him back after this. And that explaining _who_ exactly had saved him might have been a bit of a hazard.)  
  
"Anything I should pick up from the store before you arrive?" The speaker crackled, but it didn't hide the tone of teasing domesticity that Q could hear from his host.  
  
"A Faraday cage." Q retorted. "And a computer."  
  
"Why, my dear Q! I have several. When you get here, you can choose the exact computer set up your heart desires. Meanwhile, do make use of the airplane bathroom and dye your hair before you step off the plane."  
  
"What colour do you have?"  
  
"There are several," Raoul chuckled. "But you can't go wrong with blond."  
  
Q grimaced, and tugged an errant curl with his good hand.  
  
"I'll look like Dorian Gray."  
  
"I know. I can't wait to see it."  
  
"The things I'd do to avoid being spotted by an orbital satellite." Q huffed. "Don't expect me to copy your style as well."  
  
He had ample photographs, both from Tiago Rodriguez and Raoul Silva, and both wore the most outlandish shirts and slacks. He'd probably change up his jumpers and layers, but he wouldn't dare go out in public looking like a flamboyant Spaniard.  
  
"You _should_ wear contacts though, and lose those hideous thick glasses."  
  
"They aren't-"  
  
"Just until the heat dies down, of course. I have your prescription. From your file. They're in the bathroom with the hair dye."  
  
Q opened his mouth to fight for the honor of his poor glasses, but decided against it, as the older man had a point. Anything to add to his disguise while MI6 was still looking for him would only help.  
  
"... Fine. If you insist."  
  
"What would you prefer? The laurel wreaths of Dionysus?"  
  
Q gave a little smirk at that, and then he frowned. It would be difficult to dye his hair with one hand, even with the pain dulled like it was. Then he remembered, and his face lit up. That was what minions were for.  
  
"You there." Q turned to one of the mercenaries. "You'll help me with the dye."  
  
The man nodded, and Q pushed down the minor embarrassment that came from needing help at all. Besides, this was more or less in the line of work for them. A disguise was beyond necessary. Before he did that, however, he had one last question.  
  
"You read my file." He began, more of a statement than a query.  
  
"Of course." Silva replied.  
  
"Then you know who my last living relative is." Q continued. "Would it be possible to bring him to me? He's the last person in the world who knows who I used to be."  
  
"If you were just concerned about your identity, you'd send an assassin." Silva quipped.  
  
"You're right. This is personal, and I want to deal with him myself. With my own hands." Q explained, and there was a gleam in his eye that his colleagues at MI6 would find alien in him.  
  
"How intriguing. Of course I'll oblige you, Q. Consider it done."  
  
With those three words, Q felt like the old chapter of his life was really over. Rainy days in London, foggy memories of school, dark, cold childhood. They were all the domain of the man he used to be, the man whose name he would never wear again.  
  
He was finally free.


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually, Bond did escape from the complex.   
  
After losing Q, the idiots had tried doing him with truth serums and drugs to lower his inhibitions or make him talkative. They must not have known that all MI6 field agents had a carefully cultivated tolerance to all but the most exotic of so-called "truth serums" and the drugs that went along in that category. James wasn't eager to tell them either, lest they try something more damaging.  
  
All it took was one guard getting careless, anyway.  
  
Then, 007 dropped the drugged and pliant act, and snapped the fool's neck before he even realized his mistake. The other guard panicked, and tried to fire, but Bond was on him in a second, disarming him with a broken trigger finger. (And some part of him liked the vicious irony of that.)  
  
Then, he took the gun for himself, and shot the guard in the head.  
  
After that, it was easy. He stumbled out of the compound and into the night, just three days after he'd been snatched from his London flat. It was honestly the most annoying part of this whole misadventure. He'd need a new safehouse. Eventually, Bond made his way to a payphone, and used the secure number he'd memorised an age ago. It was an emergency contact for England-based extractions, and all he had to do now was wait for a team to come pick him up.  
  
Losing Q wasn't annoying. Feeling the Quartermaster slip through his protection was nigh on the most devastating failure of his adult life. Right next to watching M die in his arms, and being just as helpless to stop it.  
  
It turned out, the dingy little hideout was in Liverpool, in one of the crowded dock-side slums that seemed to have always been there, no matter the era. Oh, they'd been cleaned up a bit since Victoria's reign, but a slum was a slum in any age.  
  
He gave his report to M smelling faintly of fish.  
  
"Did Q tell you anything more?" Mallory asked with a set jaw, and a little wrinkle between his brows   
  
"Yeah." 007 muttered. "He said not to send a rescue."  
  
"He believes he's compromised." M muttered.  
  
"Or believes he will be." James continued, and remembered a dark night spent staring at a screen, and Q muttering that he _didn't have a cyanide capsule_.  
  
"Shite." Mallory breathed, and Bond had never heard him curse before. It had always seemed somehow beneath him. But now that it had come out, it was like everything had changed.  
  
"I don't think the situation's as drastic as you and Q seem to believe." James began, and M cut him off midway.  
  
"You don't think it's _drastic_ , 007? Not only was he our best, Q was our _only_ choice for Quartermaster. There is no one else, and until we can train a replacement, we're _crippled_."  
  
"Then let's find him." Bond retorted, and Mallory hit his desk with enough force to make the mahogany tremble.  
  
"Without our information network? Without our satellites and security measures? How the hell do you propose we do _that_ , Bond?"  
  
"The old fashioned way. With detective work."  
  
"If you want to go play Sherlock, go, 007."  
  
"Without the support of MI6?" James asked, quickly realizing just how angry M really was.  
  
"Bond, it was _your_ flat the Quartermaster was stolen from. You're lucky I want you on the job searching for him, or else I might have you put on trial."  
  
It didn't get much clearer than that, and Bond gave a little respectful nod before turning to leave.  
  
"Oh, and Bond?" Mallory asked, from behind the desk. "If the time comes to send the assassin Q wanted, will you be able to pull the trigger?"  
  
Bond couldn't answer that, and M knew it. It should have been so damn easy, just another compromised agent to get rid of. But the thought of Q, of his empty resignation and hollow eyes, made Bond nervous. The thought of Q being gone, gone for good, was driving him up a wall.  
  
"Bond. I asked you a question." Mallory asked, standing up to his full height behind the desk.  
  
007 looked at him. He didn't break eye contact for a good ten seconds. And then, he went out the door without saying a word.  
  
Leaving MI6 headquarters, James knew what was going to happen. He wasn't going to have his gadgets or his tech, or the resources he'd become accustomed to. He was on thin ice, and in the international registries, he was probably revoked from all the diplomatic immunity lists. Without the authority of MI6, and without the power of Britain behind him, Bond would have to be very, very, careful.  
  
And careful was something he'd never been quite good at.  
  
Moneypenny stopped him as he was leaving, and pressed two sets of keys into his hands. The first set of keys was familiar and heavy in his palm - the beautiful Aston Martin with all the features Q branch could stuff into the slim black chassis. The second key had a tag on the end, a tag with an address in London. Bond looked at Eve with a raised eyebrow, her curls framing her face beautifully as she gave a little sad smile.  
  
"Q branch fixed it up for you. You aren't _technically_ supposed to get it for this mission, but I think Q would want you to have it."  
  
"And the other key?" Bond asked, grinning at the thought of having the Aston Martin for the mission ahead.  
  
"His flat." Eve replied.  
  
Bond didn't need clarification. He held the key tighter, and looked toward the door. He doubted there were any clues at his flat about who had taken Q, but part of James wanted to see if he could uncover more about the younger man's mindset and thought process.  
  
"Thank you, Moneypenny." Bond murmured, and he meant it. Then he said nothing else as he left the main building. He only stopped long enough to grab his car along the way, and speed off into the London traffic with all the recklessness he was allowed in the city.  
  
Q's little flat in the heart of London was tiny and cold, and it looked like something you'd see in a catalogue. There was nothing personal to it, save for the extensive computer set up where someone else might have a study. There was a television, but it wasn't connected to a satellite or cable, and the remote was sitting on top, covered in dust. It looked as though no one really lived here. There were boxes of Chinese take-out stacked up in the kitchen, and a toothbrush in a glass on the bathroom sink.  
  
He plucked a hair from Q's hairbrush, and slipped it into an airtight bag with carefully gloved fingers. They had Q's DNA on file, in the computer database, but this could still be useful one day.  
  
Another little personal touch snuck in when he found the files.  
  
They had been tucked away in a locked box beneath the computer desk, so Bond dragged the heavy box away from the sensitive electronics, and broke the lock with a very small amount of C4 in the form of explosive putty. Inside, there were carefully labelled manilla folders, and Bond examined them with gloved hands.  
  
 _James Bond. Quartermaster. Skyfall. Tiago Rodriguez_.  
  
The names sent something like a cold sweat down Bond's back, but he shrugged it off. He looked at the file labelled _Quartermaster_ first.  
  
There was a name there, a name that had been heavily redacted with permanent marker, so heavy it bled through the page to the other side. The age was also redacted, but with less extreme predjudice. Even that, James thought, was telling.  
  
There were a few names in the file that told a story, even though the names that mattered were blacked out. The school Q had gone to as a boy, and the college he'd attended as a young man. The name of his last living relative, an uncle in Devonshire. The names of his mother and father, and how they'd died.  
  
Something in the back of Bond's mind itched when he thought about M and orphans, and he deliberately ignored it, choosing to toss aside the file about Q, instead reaching for the file labelled _Tiago Rodriguez_.  
  
He'd read it before. He read it after the island, and he read it after Skyfall. He didn't have the security clearance, but he read the copy that M had left him in her personal effects. Q's version was updated and annotated.  
  
 _Born: Catalina Island, Spain_ was underlined in red. _Alias: Raoul Silva_ , was right under his former double-o designation, and Q had circled it in the same ink, and written beside: _Raoul Silva = A Rival Soul. Station H_ had been underlined twice, and Q wrote beside it: _1980 - ???  
_  
It made no sense to Bond, and he didn't know why Q cared. Why had he cared about any of this? James could understand about having Q's own file on hand, but why have Bond and Silva's? Why the seeming obsession with what MI6 had dubbed the "Skyfall Incident?"  
  
The Skyfall folder was almost exactly the same as the copy on MI6's database, though Q seemed to have written numbers next to each known step on the road to Silva's vengeance. Bond eventually realized that it was a kill count. A list of how many had died leading up to M.  
  
Despite his reluctance, Bond opened his own file, morbidly curious to see what Q had noted about him.  
  
He was disappointed to see that there were no little notes, no highlights and scribbles about him. He had a kill count too, over the course of his career as an agent, but Q seemed to have only noted the collateral damage, people who'd died because he got careless, or there were loose ends, or someone had to die to accomplish a mission, someone who didn't deserve it.   
  
That's what Mallory had wanted Q to be now, collateral damage, someone who had to be killed because he knew too much and didn't have a double-o's training.  
  
Bond threw aside the last of the files and stood up from his crouch. He had something of an idea where to start, but wasn't sure if it would work. If MI6 hadn't been contacted for a ransom, there was a slim chance that Q's last living family member had. At the very least, Bond wanted to see the place where Q had grown up. Maybe it would have more insights than the tiny apartment with the piles of take-out and nothing else to show that someone had ever lived there.  
  
It took him a bit to settle things in London, and drive out to the estate in Devonshire, but when he got there, Bond saw that he wasn't alone. There were black un-marked cars parked around the drive, windows tinted too dark to see into.  
  
Parking his car far enough away to be less noticed, he began the walk up to the house. Bond crept up to a window and got a quick glance into the parlor, where an older man in black fatigues was interrogating a middle aged Englishman in a house robe. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he managed to snap a picture of the scene. Hopefully whatever was left of Q-Branch could identify some of the thugs in the photo.  
  
Bond heard something like a shout then, muffled by the glass, but he knew by the tone of it that he'd been seen. Immediately, the double-o agent ducked and rolled, and was narrowly missed by a spray of machine gun fire. It shattered the windows outward, and Bond crunched glass underfoot as he lurched to his feet, pulling out the Walther tucked into his shoulder holster and taking cover behind a brick section of wall.  
  
"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Someone called out with a sing-song voice, in an accent that was Russian, or maybe Ukrainian. "Come out now, and let's talk like men."  
  
"You just shot at me through the _windows_ with an _automatic weapon_." Bond retorted, feeling safe enough in his cover to reply at all. "Forgive me if I don't come skipping right along."  
  
Another spray of bullets answered him, and there was muttering in what Bond now knew was Ukrainian. He heard the older man (the man who must be Q's uncle) give a muffled cry of outrage as he was gagged, and it seemed that the crew of mercenaries had gotten what they came for. He understood the gist of their conversation, they'd gotten what they came for, and weren't going to push their luck.  
  
Bond might have followed when the thugs left the house, but he was outmanned and outgunned, and it would do no one any good if he didn't get back to Q Branch with the photo he took. Still, he wished he'd gotten a tracker on at least one of them.  
  
Then he wouldn't feel quite so impotent in the face of his failure to learn anything he didn't already know.


End file.
